Lindsey Davis - Falco 13 - A Body In The Bath House

by A Body In The Bath House(lit)

  He stared at me. “Gaius, can you find me the tallies for the caterer’s regular food order?”

  He shuffled around, identified them, heaved them over to me. Then he leaned across, so he saw which records I was already working on and the notes I had scribbled. It took him no time to make the connection. “Oh rats!” he said. “I never thought of that.”

  “You see my point.” I was cradling my cheek gloomily. “Nothing matches, Gaius. The wages bill is high. Money drains away through a sieve and yet look at these food invoices. The quantities of wine and provisions brought in don’t marry up for those numbers of men… I’d say the supplies quantities are about right for those I’ve seen on site. It’s the labour figures that are suspect. If you look around outside, we have hardly any of the trades, other than basic heavies who can dig trenches.”

  “The workforce is low, Falco; that’s proved by the way that the programme keeps slipping. The clerk who keeps the programme doesn’t care, he just plays dice all day. The project team explained it as “delays due to bad weather” when I queried it.”

  “They always say that.” Trying to employ Gloccus and Cotta back in Rome had taught me the system. “Either rain threatens to spoil their concrete or it’s too hot for the men to work.”

  “None of my business anyway; I’m here to count beans.”

  I sighed. He had tried. He was just a clerk. He had so little authority everyone ran rings round him.

  “It’s time you and I counted heads, not beans.” I took him into my confidence. “Here’s my theory: it looks like at least one of our merry supervisors is claiming for a phantom labour force.”

  Gaius leaned back with his arms folded. “Whew! I like working with you, Falco. This is fun!”

  “No, it’s not. It’s very serious.” I could see a black hole opening up. “It may explain why Lupus and Mandumerus are at odds. There could be a turf war for control of the labour fiddle. That’s bad news. Whichever of the supervisors is running the racket, Gaius, listen: take great care. Once they know we’ve found out, life will become extremely dangerous.”

  Gaius then continued with his own work rather quietly.

  I slipped out later, to look into another aspect. I had been thinking about Magnus and his peculiar behaviour yesterday around the delivery carts. He had claimed he was ‘checking a marble consignment’. I thought it unlikely but clever frauds often deceive you not with lies but with cunning half-truths.

  I wanted to find the area where marble was being worked. I was led there by the screeching and scraping noises of saw-blades. With Nux at my heels, I made my way into the fenced enclosure. Men were preparing and squaring up newly delivered irregular blocks, using hammers and various grades of chisels. Nux ran off with her tail down, alarmed by the din, but I could only put my fingers in my ears as I hung around, inspecting various upright slabs.

  Four men were pushing and pulling a multi-bladed saw to split a blue-grey block into pieces for inlay. The un toothed iron blades were supported in a wooden box frame, its progress lubricated by pouring water and sand into the cuts. By a slow and careful process, the men were slicing through the stone to produce several delicately fine sheets at once. From time to time they lifted the saw, resting their hands. A boy then moved in to brush away the damp powder produced by their labour, the marble ‘flour’, which I knew would be collected and used by the plasterers, mixed into their topcoats to give an extra fine glossy finish. The boy then fed new sand and water into the saw grooves to provide abrasion, and the sawyers resumed their cutting.

  The resulting slabs would then be stacked vertically according to

  their thickness and quality. Lying around haphazardly were also a number of broken blocks, which must have shattered under the saw. Elsewhere fine sheets had been laid out on benches and were now being smoothed to a high finish with ironstone blocks and water.

  As I wandered around, I was amazed by the colour and variety of the marble being worked on. It all seemed a little premature, given that the new building was only at foundation stage. Perhaps that was because the materials were coming from far-flung places and needed to be acquired well in advance. Preparation on site would take a very long time, in view of the huge scale of the proposed palace.

  The head marble mason found me watching. He dragged me into his hut. There I readily accepted the offer of a hot drink-since he had despaired of Iggidunus and was brewing up his own on a small tripod.

  “I’m Falco. You’re ?”

  “Milchato.” They were a cosmopolitan bunch here. Who knows where he hailed from with a name like that? Africa or Tripolitania. Egypt, possibly. He had grizzled grey hair, but his skin was dark; so was his narrow beard. His origin must be somewhere the web-footed Phoenicians left their mark. Or raking up old sores, let’s call it somewhere Carthaginian.

  “Worth the fire risk.” I grinned, as he blew on the charcoal burner, heating up wine in a small bronze folding saucepan. A man who tolerated life in a temporary camp by bringing his own battery of comforts. It reminded me, with a pang, of my efficient friend Lucius Petronius. Britain was where he and I served in the army. I was seriously missing Petro. “I’ve been looking at your stock. I thought most of the planned decoration on the palace would be paint but Togidubnus seems to like his marble too. I’m staying in the old house; there’s quite a range there. Surely it’s not local?”

  “Some.” He sprinkled dry herbs in two beakers. “You’ll see a bluey coloured British stone. Slightly rough.” Ferreting among the clutter, he tossed me a piece of it. “Comes from down the coast to westward. And what else has the old fella got? Oh, there’s a red from the Mediterranean and some brown speckled stuff from Gaul, if I remember.”

  “You worked on the old house?”

  “I was just a lad!” he grinned.

  Like the other craftsmen, he had a vast array of samples scattered around him. Irregular pieces of multicoloured marble lay everywhere. A few had tablets pegged under them, with what must be firm orders for the new scheme. Leaning casually against the hut’s doorframe, used as a doorstop, was a superb finished panel of inlaid veneers with a pentagon set in a circle. I picked up a delicate moulding with a seductive shine. It looked like a dado rail or a border between panels. “Fillets!” exclaimed Milchato. “I like a few carved fillets.”

  “This is exquisite. And I’ve rarely seen so many types of marble in one place.”

  Milchato demonstrated offhandedly. They came from places far apart: the blue stone, plus a similar grey, from Britain and then crystalline white from the central hills of distant Phrygia. He had a fine green and white veined type from the foothills of the Pyrennees, a yellow and white from Gaul, more than one variety from Greece…

  “Your import costs must be staggering!”

  Milchato shrugged. “That’s why there will be quite a lot of paintwork including mock-marbling.” He seemed relaxed about it. “They’ve brought a lad over to do it; naturally it’s not his field, he’s really a landscape specialist-‘

  “Typical!” I sympathised.

  “Oh… Blandus knows him. Jobs for the guild, you know. Some smart arse from Stabiae -it’s no problem; I can train him in what marble really looks like. The young fellow’s all right, quite bright really for a painter.” Milchato drained his beaker. He must have a throat that could swallow hot bitumen. “My contract is big enough to keep me busy and believe me, Falco, I can buy what I want. Free hand. Authority to draw on resources from anywhere in the Empire. Can’t ask for more than that.”

  But could he, though? Was he somehow topping up his salary? I would have to check how much stone was being imported and whether it was all still here.

  “I’ll be frank,” I said. “You know I am here to look for problems. There may be diddling with the marble.”

  Milchato gazed at me, wide-eyed. He was giving his most careful attention to this theory of mine. If he studied it any more seriously, I would think he was mocking me. “Whoops! Do you think so?”

&n
bsp; “I wouldn’t insult you by claiming it, otherwise,” I replied dryly.

  “That’s terrible… surely a mistake.” He ran one hand over his beard, which rasped as if he had tough hairs and a dry skin.

  “Do you rule it out?” Only an idiot rules out fraud anywhere on a building site.

  “Oh I wouldn’t say that, Falco.” Now he was being open and helpful. “No, it’s entirely possible… In fact, you may well be right.”

  This was easy. I always like that. “Any ideas?”

  “The sawyers!” cried Milchato at once, almost eagerly. Yes, it was very easy. Loyalty to his labour force was not his strong feature. Still, I was the man from Rome; he would feel even less respect for me. “Bound to be them. Some of them deliberately use too coarse a grain of sand when they’re cutting. It wears away more than necessary of the slabs. We have to order more material. The client pays. The sawyers split the difference with the marble supplier.”

  “Are you sure of it?”

  “I have had my own suspicions for a while. This fiddle is famous. Oldest trick in the book.”

  “Milchato, that is extremely helpful.” I rose to leave. He came to the door with me. I slapped him around the shoulders. Tin glad I called on you. This will save me days of work, you know. Now I’m going to leave you with it for a while; I want you to look out for the trick, and see if you can put a stop to it. I could order the bastards to be sent home again, but we’re really stuck out here. I can’t lose them. Obtaining new labour for a specialism is too difficult.”

  “I’ll jump on it, Falco,” he promised gravely.

  “Good man!” I said.

  It was time to leave. He had another visitor. An elderly man in a Roman tunic, wrapped in a dramatic long scarlet cape and with a travelling hat. He acted as if he was somebody but whoever it was, I was not introduced. Though Milchato and I parted on good terms, I was sure the marble master waited deliberately until I left the area. Only then did he greet his next visitor properly.

  It was decent of him to admit the fault. If all the supervisors with scheming workmen came through so well, I would soon be going home.

  On the other hand, when any witness in an enquiry owned up too readily, my habit was to look around to see what he was really hiding.

  Iggidunus brought his five barred gates late that afternoon. They started off large, then became smaller as he ran out of space on his tablet. I could see at once that if his count was vaguely accurate, my fears were correct.

  “Thanks. Just what I wanted.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s for, Falco?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gaius, head down over his work, looking apprehensive.

  “Auditing pottery,” I decreed smoothly. “The storekeeper isn’t happy. Seems we’ve had too many beaker breakages on site.”

  Iggidunus, thinking he would get the blame, scurried off hastily.

  Gains and I at once grabbed the tablet and started to set our official labour records against the numbers who were actually here on site according to the mulsum round. The discrepancy was not as bad as I had expected, but then they were still digging foundations and the current complement was low. When the walls of the new palace started rising, I knew Cyprianus was due to take on a very large tranche of general masons, plus stone-cutters to shape and face the ashlar blocks, scaffolders, barrow boys and mortar-mixers. That would be any day now. If we acquired non-existent workers in the same proportions, our numbers would at that point be out by nearly five hundred. In army terms, someone would be defrauding the Treasury of the daily cost of a whole cohort of men.

  The clerk was extremely excited. “Are we going to report this, Falco?”

  “Not straight away.”

  “But ‘

  “I want to sit on it.” He did not understand.

  Discovering that a fraud exists is only the first step. It has to be proved and the proof has to be absolutely watertight.

  XXVI

  I whistled to Nux and took her on a walk. She wanted to go home for her dinner, but I needed the exercise. As I plodded along, lost in thought, she looked up at me as if she thought her master had gone crazy. First I dragged her on a frightening ship, then an immense journey overland, and finally I brought her to this place where there were no pavements and the sun had died. Half the human legs she sniffed were clad in hairy woollen trousers. Nux was born a city dog, a sophisticated Roman layabout. Like me, she wanted to be kicked at by the bare-legged bullies of home.

  I took her to the painters’ hut, hoping to ask the assistant about Blandus’ progress. There was no sight of this lad everybody talked about. I did see more of what must be his work. In the blank space where someone had previously written ‘lapis blue here’, that note was now scrawled out and a different hand had added ‘pomponius too mean: blue frit!” Perhaps that was the assistant. Some deep blue paint was mixed in a bucket, no doubt ready to obliterate the graffiti before the project manager saw it.

  Since I was last here, someone had tried out new types of marbling. Blue and green paints were smeared together in an artistic technique he had not quite mastered, with pairs of symmetrical patches like the mirrored patterns of split-open marble blocks. Endless squares of better-executed dull pink and red veining had been added to the chaos. There was a landscape panel, a stunning turquoise seascape, with finely touched white villas on a shore that looked exactly like Surrentum or Herculaneum. No; it was Stabiae, of course-whence the smart arse had been fetched.

  Light seemed to dance off the waves. With a few competent brush strokes the artist had created a haunting miniature holiday scene. It made me long for the Mediterranean…

  The fresco assistant had loafed off somewhere. Given what yprianus said about painters, he might be after some woman. It had better not be one of my party.

  In the hut next door I did find the bereaved mosaicist, Philocles Junior.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”

  “They say you hit him!”

  “Not hard.” The son was obviously all fired up. “Keep calm. He was going mad and had to be restrained.”

  The son took after his father, I could see. It seemed best not to hang about. I had too much to do; this was no time to start making myself a slow-burning, brooding enemy. If Philocles Junior wanted a feud in

  ySBI

  his late father’s mould, he must look elsewhere. *

  I led Nux past the parked wagons, hunting for Aelianus. He was lying in the statue cart not quite asleep today, but looking bored. ]

  Recognising him, Nux jumped on him happily.

  “Ugh! Get it off me.” -p

  “Not a dog-lover?”

  “I spend half my time hiding from the guard dogs from the secure compound.”

  “Fierce?”

  “Man-eaters. They bring the pack out once a day, looking for human flesh they can train them with.”

  “Ah, British dogs have a tremendous reputation, Aulus.”

  “They’re gruesome. I was expecting them to howl all night-but their silence is worse, somehow. The handlers can hardly hold them. They snake around, virtually towing the men, searching for someone who’s stupid enough to try running away. It’s clear they’d kill anyone who did. I think the handlers bring the dogs out so would-be thieves see them and are too terrified to break in.”

  “So you’re not going over the fence to pick up a new fountain bowl for your father’s garden?”

  “Don’t joke.”

  “All right. I don’t want to have to tell your mother I found you with your throat torn out… Anything to report?”

  “No.”

  I’ll be off, then. Stick with it.”

  “Can’t I stop doing this, Falco?”

  “No.”

  Nux and I set off to our elegant royal quarters for dinner, leaving Aelianus out in the damp woods. As I started walking back, I wondered how his brother was, and when Justinus might manage to send me word of his activities. My assistants and I
were too scattered.

  I needed a runner. At home I could have brought in one of my teenage nephews; here there was no one I could trust.

  Nux was root ling This was better. She had learned that in Britain there were at least ways of getting her hair full of twigs and her snout earthy. Maybe the guard dogs had left fascinating messages as they passed this way. She spent long pauses with her nose in the leaf litter at the side of our track, then she tired of that and rushed crazily after me, dragging a large branch and barking hoarsely.

  “Nux, let’s show the barbarians some forum manners, please-don’t roll in that!” Too late. “Bad dog.” Nux, who had never grasped the finer points of reprimands, wagged her tail frenetically.

  Why had I taken in a reckless street mongrel with a taste for dung as an unguent, when other Romans acquired sleek lapdogs with long pointed noses to appear in the stone plaques they commissioned? Father to gate and serious with a scroll, mother matronly and bestoled, infants tidy, slaves respectful, moneybags flaunted and clean pet gazing up at them adoringly… I should have known better. I could at least have let myself be picked by a dog with short hair.

  Mine was happy now she stank. She had simple taste. We walked on. Gloomily, I pondered the possibility of taking Nux through the Great King’s bath house. It could have raw consequences. Ever since the official insensitivity that led to Boudicca and the Great Rebellion, all Romans who came to Britain were required to conduct themselves with clean-hands diplomacy. No rape; no plundering inheritances; no racial abuse; and absolutely no cleaning muck off your dog in a tribal king’s domestic plunge bath.

  I was trying to call her back to me, with a view to attaching a rope to her so she did not rush indoors before I had had a chance to sluice her down, when Nux found new excitement. A pile of roughhewn tree trunks had slipped. I could see that, because some were spilt across the track. Nux dashed up the remaining pile, scrabbling.

  “Get down from there, Stinky! If they roll again, I’ll leave you crushed in the woodpile ‘